It was during the night
by OverlyImaginative
Summary: It's been hard for John and he's done with feeling alone. He's about to do something drastic when Sherlock saves the day yet again. Will he find out what John was doing up in his room? Warning: Near suicide. This will be Johnlock and I hope that doesn't bother you. Rated T for the themes
1. Chapter 1

It was in the night that John was worst.

Those nights when he lay in ben curled into the foetal position, shaking as the tears became a flow of sadness dripping onto the sheets or pillow on which he rested his head.

He knew nobody was around but he still wept silently, muffling the sobs with the covers or his pillow. He didn't want anybody at those times, but at the same time all he yearned was for a warm body to encircle him in their arms and whisper that it'll all be alright. That he'll beat this depression.

The voice never comes, the warmth never comes. Nothing does. The only thing he is left with is a feeling of emptiness. He's felt like this for so long he's blocked it out, he's so numb, so, so numb.

There would be a wave of… of…_something. _Something that would cause him to tense, to curl tighter into himself and his hands to grab onto his hair, tugging painfully at the blond locks. Sometimes it was skin, he would hold onto his neck, tensing his shoulder blades and digging his nails into the soft skin until there were marks left that left a small amount of blood welling to the surface and to drip down. He still wouldn't make a noise in that moment but it's hard. If he didn't hold back, a horrible wail would echo throughout his bedroom and he didn't want to hear it. The sound of his own mental pain.

He thought he'd beaten it, the suicidal thoughts, the self-hate, the itching of his wrists. The dreams were the worst, always leaving him in this very position.

It had stopped though, when he'd met the great Sherlock Holmes. Well, not stopped but it had gotten better. He hadn't been so alone, so sad all the time. Sherlock had saved him and he'd never been able to thank him for it.

He'd never forget it, the sight of his best friend flying through the air towards the hard, cold pavement meters below. The sight of those open eyes staring into nothing, looking so vacant as the black curls soaked in his dark, dark blood. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it. Sherlock had saved him and what had he done in return? Watched as the detective fell to his death.

Suicide. It was something he had contemplated a lot. His note wouldn't be long though, it would only be a few brief goodbyes but mostly it would be to make sure nobody blamed themselves. Then again, who would read it? Sure, Harry would be a bit upset but she'd get over it, just buy another bottle of scotch. Mrs Hudson would be saddened but it wouldn't last long. Lestrade would be unhappy at most, maybe even annoyed but it would hardly affect him unless it was seen as murder and became a case. It would hardly affect anybody. Sarah would hire another doctor to fill his position, Mrs Hudson would get new tenants, Lestrade would probably not even hear, and Mycroft wouldn't be bothered in the slightest.

No, nobody would overly miss him.

Three years of this now. Existing. Existing in a numb state where the only thing he does feel is pain. He missed his detective, the man that made him feel alive again. It's getting too hard for him to live now; he's back to the way he was after being discharged. He had no purpose and it was killing him. Sherlock had given him purpose; he'd also given him the thing he needed. A friend. Somebody who was there.

He didn't know when but somehow in all the time he spent with the crazy man, he fell in love. He hadn't believed in love before that, thinking it just a lie you told to make your partner feel close but now he knew it. It's real. Every time he'd look at Sherlock his heart would skip a beat, he'd get butterflies and his palms would sometimes even become sweaty. He became a nervous teenager again around the man. It was so frustrating but so lovely at the same time.

The night before Sherlock jumped, he'd told the detective how he felt and to his utter surprize, the man had returned his sentiments. It had been his dream. But then the call came, Mrs Hudson had been hurt. He could still remember the disbelief he had harboured as Sherlock had refused to go and see her. The words that he had spat at him; "you machine," being the phrase that echoed around his head on repeat.

It's a cold night tonight. You could hear the wind outside whistling through the cracks in the silence, making the army doctor shake as he wrote it.

He had made a decision.

He couldn't go on like this, so alone all the time. The last time he had been about to do it was the night before meeting Sherlock. It's funny how one man could alter his life so drastically and then for it to resume as it was, the second he left.

The note was simple; a short goodbye and a small paragraph to tell them to let him go, to forget him. He left it on the coffee table.He folded it neatly, only writing the word "goodbye" on the front. Hopefully Mrs Hudson wouldn't find him; she didn't need to see the mess. He knew that she would but still he wished.

He made his way back to his room barefoot. He was comfortable in his plaid pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt. In his room, in the third drawer down, he still kept that gun. It was cold when he picked it up; it felt heavy in his hands. He decided to sit on the bed for this, so he made himself comfortable. His hands were shaking as he brought the gun to his temple, he squeezed his eyes shut. It was ready, he was ready. He didn't need to be alone anymore.

He was about to pull it, to press his finger down on the trigger.

When the sound of a door hitting the wall in the living room made him freeze.

"John?" A baritone voice drifted up to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi, I'm not sure I'm happy with this chapter but it's the best i could do :) I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

John tried to squash down the glimmer of hope that rose in his chest as he heard the questioning voice. _No john, he's dead. This is in your head; you just _want_ him to be alive. _He waited for a moment, wanting to hear it again. This would be the last thing he heard and he wanted it to be Sherlock's beautiful voice reverberating through his ears one last time.

He close his eyes when nothing else came, only a horrible silence that filled the flat. _Huh, well I guess it _was _just my imagination. _ He was feeling disappointed when he pushed the gun to his temple a bit firmer. This was it; the last sight he would ever see would be his bedroom window with the curtain blowing around in the strong winds. He really should have closed the window.

He took a deep breath in, his chest sticking out as he straightened his back. The safety was off and he was ready, he was no longer going to be alone, left with only his thoughts. It was going to end and he was going to be better. He _needed _to do this.

Didn't he?

He paused as he asked himself that, did he want to die. He wanted to stop feeling like this and he saw this as the only way out, he thought logically.

He was still contemplating when he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, towards his room. They were quick and purposeful, showing that whoever this was knew what he was here for. It was a matter of moments before his bedroom door was whipped open that he managed to hide the gun away in his bedside table. He didn't want to be caught.

He stared at the doorway which was being vacated by a tall imposing figure, dressed in dark colours. His large coat was so familiar and his curls were a mass around his head, sticking out in all directions. And his eyes… they were just like he remembered, both in the colour and the way they looked through you, as though he could see into your mind.

They gazed at each other, both of them hardly taking a breath until John found himself whispering breathlessly "Sherlock…" His voice was unsteady and he couldn't stop shaking. He needed Sherlock. This… This couldn't be real. Could it?

He didn't know he was crying until the tears dripped onto his hand, making him look down at the wet track that was dragged down his palm. Neither of them moved. They were frozen in place. John shut his eyes suddenly with a pained expression. _Am I dead, did I do it? Or have I finally lost it? Because he can't be real. _His breath came out in a puff and he looked up at Sherlock with a tentative expression, so scared that this would all vanish, that he would wake up like he'd done so many times before screaming and crying all while trying so hard to hold onto the memory of his best friend- his _partner_- in the light of day.

It was then that Sherlock moved forward, lowering to his knees in front of him. He took John's hand in his as he leaned his forehead on the army doctor's knee. "I'm so, so sorry. John, please, I did it to save you," His voice was watery as he begged "Please, Moriarty was going to kill you unless I died. I had to make the snipers think I was dead" These words were barely heard by the man.

"Why did you stay away?" His voice was so soft, it was hard for Sherlock to hear him but he did. He raised his head, to watch John in silence for a small while.

"I needed to deal with _his _men," His voice was harsh as he spoke of Moriarty. John understood at once. He didn't need to hear more and if he was completely honest, he didn't _want _to. Sherlock had reasons; he had very valid reasons though that didn't lessen the hurt John was feeling. He was so wounded by this detective, yet the only one who could comfort him was in front of him wearing his big coat with the blue scarf.

"I thought you were dead. Three years," The words were painful for him to choke out "I was so alone," At those words, Sherlock dived up. In a second, he was holding John in his arms with his body heat radiating onto the shorter man.

It was so hard for him. He was so scared. _Will I just wake up and Sherlock will be gone? _He didn't know how he could live through that. This was the first time he had dreamt of Sherlock coming back, it was always the jump.

In all of this, the only feeling he could sum up was either joy at his return or furious rage at his abandonment. He knew it wasn't like that but it hurt so badly. He had to get it out.

"You left me! You could have contacted me, told me that you weren't dead! I went through three years of this, of blaming myself because I couldn't save you. I hated myself because I wasn't a good enough friend to help you." He shouted, almost screaming at the detective who had leant back on his knees.

His face hadn't moved, he had kept it expressionless. Some of the fight evaporated at the way Sherlock was just letting him shout at him without so much as a retort. It was even more painful to be angry at him. He wanted to be angry, well, he didn't but that was what is expected after this betrayal. He wasn't angry though, he was so happy. Happy that his best friend is alive, happy that he has another chance to be with him. No, this wasn't a betrayal. This was to save him.

He knew other people would be so outraged; they would kick and scream but the only thing John wanted to do in that moment was lie back on the bed with this man and cuddle up. He was always tired after these nights; the depression being at its worst.

The worst thing about this is that he didn't harbour anything but love for this man. Occasionally there was the utter frustration but you can't expect anything else with Sherlock Holmes. He let out a sigh, most of the tension leaving his body and let himself smile at the detective that was watching him with doe eyes. "I'm tired; do you want to just sleep for now?" He asked on a yawn and stretched out his arms, wincing as a click came from his shoulder and a stab of pain shot down his arm.

He would give anything to see the look of pure relief but hesitance that was evident all over the detective again. It was probably the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. It melted his heart and he found himself beaming at the startled man. Sherlock had been expecting screaming, to be kicked out of the flat, anything but this. He wasn't complaining though as he tried to excuse himself to change into his own clothes.

John panicked as he tried to leave "No! Stay," He did blush at the outburst but he was afraid that if he let Sherlock out of his sight, he would disappear. Luckily, the detective only smiled.

"Could I borrow some of your clothes?" John was pretty sure he'd never tire of that deep voice. There was a fluttering in his stomach as he nodded, gesturing to the drawers. His eyes followed the man wandering around his bedroom, a small smile on his lips.

His gaze only wavered when Sherlock began to strip, the bruises and scars covering his body were too much but John made himself look. They covered most of him, from his shoulders down to his calf. There were some that he was pretty sure come from torture. He had to blink back tears thinking about what that man must have gone through trying to take down Moriarty's empire.

This was all briefly forgotten when the man in question looked up from pulling on a pair of socks, flashing a smile he reserved only for his love, John. He made his way to the bed but paused before pulling back the covers on his side to press a chaste kiss to John's lips. It was amazing, John had missed this man so much and here he was.

Sherlock had been withdrawing but John grabbed his newly dawned white t-shirt and dragged him down so their lips met once again, this kiss rougher this time. A tongue traced Sherlock's lips, asking for entrance and soon their tongues were dancing. They finally tore apart when a loud moan escaped John's throat.

They were both breathing heavily and they rested their foreheads together "Not tonight, we both need sleep" Sherlock murmured against John's mouth. He did pull back, but not before capturing John's bottom lip between his teeth gently, sucking at it before finally leaning back. Next, he was rushing around the bed to his side, almost jumping in and grinning at John before the doctor entered the double bed at a slower pace.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," john had a small smile as he turned on his side, facing away from Sherlock.

He took in a small breath as a pair of strong arms wrapped around him from behind, the body heat of the detective radiating onto his back. He felt the man press a kiss to his neck, murmuring a small "Goodnight, John. I love you."

In all of this, he had managed to block out the gun that sat in his bedside drawers. He could explain it if Sherlock found it, the detective didn't need to know the real reason for its place there, he told himself.

He felt the steady breathing of Sherlock behind him, already fast asleep.

Yes, tonight's turned into a good night.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up with Sherlock's arms around him. It took a moment for this to sink in before he jerked forward, almost flying out the bed in his haste and quickly scrambled up to a standing position. He was mumbling something but not even he could make it out, he was gobsmacked at the sight of that pale detective lying in his bed.

Said detective was now looking up at John with a look of pure confusion. He was still half asleep and didn't know what was going on. It was adorable and John found himself relaxing as he fought a smile.

He shook his head and replaced the amused expression with a heated scowl. No, he would not let Sherlock off this easy. He may have been happy last night but now it was all catching up; the anger, the hurt, the pain. Last night he had been relieved but now… Now he was _angry. _

"Sherlock…" He had started but took a deep breath; trying to cam himself down by clenching his hands. He only sniffed before turning abruptly and walking down to the kitchen quickly and didn't bother turning around when his name was called and the sound of limbs hitting the floor and dashing after him.

He was quick and exact in his movements while pressing on the kettle and preparing two mugs of tea before the familiar click of the kettle sounded. He didn't even glance at Sherlock as he poured it though leaned back when the steam rose towards his face. _Jesus, that's hot, better give it a minute _he thought to himself as he picked up his favourite mug and turned to the doors leading to the living room. "John, please," Sherlock's voice stopped him. It sounded… Different. He just couldn't pinpoint it.

"Please what?" He asked. His voice was low and cold as he turned his head to stare at Sherlock. _Do not give in, John. He can't really care that much. _His thoughts sounded certain but one look at Sherlock fought against them. The detective looked heartbroken; as vulnerable as John had ever seen him. It made his anger subside considerably.

Not completely, though.

"Please forgive me, please," He was begging now, his eyes pleading with John to understand.

"Forgive you for what? For leaving me?" His control was slipping quickly "For letting me think you were dead for _three fucking years?" _the last words came out as a hiss and he took a moment to take control of himself again, trying to hold back the anger seething within, "I want to know why. Why did you leave? Why didn't you tell me?"

That was what he was really asking himself. He wasn't that angry, he was hurt. How could Sherlock go this long with letting him know he was alive? Didn't he know how much he suffered? How he had let it go on long enough for John to hold a gun to his head?

He felt betrayed. It scared him though, the thought that if Sherlock had been a second later he would have found John with a bullet hole through his temple. Would he even care? Would it faze him? Or would he just be another body to the great Sherlock Holmes?

His stomach plummeted as he thought that over. Would he care? John didn't think he could live with the pain of knowing Sherlock wouldn't care about his death. _He'll never know, you'll never have to worry about it. _

John knew that these feelings had to be let out, lest they ruin their relationship so he found himself listening as Sherlock rushed through his explanation "I had to John. Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Unless the snipers saw me dead they would kill all of you. I couldn't let you die, John. I couldn't." His voice was thick with emotions that he rarely let show.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was less sharp now.

"I couldn't risk any of you. I've been dealing with Moriarty's men as I told you last night. I've done it though. I'm home now and I'm so sorry John." Sherlock's puppy eyes zeroed in on John "Please forgive me. We can go back to normal now, we can be together," His voice was desperate as he spoke.

John wasn't quite done though. He knew that if he didn't say this now, it would only grow worse and eventually there would be resentment. "Sherlock. Do you realize how miserable I've been through the last three years? I told you last night. I blamed myself for all of this. In my eyes, it was my fault you were dead. If I had just been able to talk you off the ledge you would be alive. There were so many 'what ifs' and my mind ran over every single one for every single second of my existence."

He took a deep breath as his voice had risen considerably and now he brought it down again, in a low voice added "I loved you, I _still _love you. Every day for those years I thought that I would never see the man I loved again and it was my fault." His voice broke as he finally said the words he'd been dying to say for all these years "After the war… My life was empty, I was existing. Then I met you. You changed it, you gave me a purpose. You gave me the danger, the excitement, the cases, you. Everything you shared with me gave me a new purpose. When you jumped… It was gone all over again, I was lost." John swallowed thickly "I was scared because I was alone again."

Sherlock's stance slumped as the speech went on, his shoulders hunching forward and refused to look at John. His gaze was focused on a spot on the floor, guilt gnawing away at his stomach making his wrap his arms tightly around his waist; bending over in an attempt to make the discomfort go away. John saw this and took a small step forward; his anger almost completely gone now as he looked at the man before him.

_He suffered as much as you. _John sighed and reached out to place a hand on Sherlock's hunched shoulder. He was shivering badly and tears rolled down his cheeks silently and onto the ground below. _He knew you were alive but that meant he couldn't have closure. He could watch but he couldn't make contact. _"Sherlock…" His voice came out soft.

"No. No stop, John. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." His voice was breaking too much as he forced the words out around the tears "You need to believe me. If there was any other way I would have done it." He had his arms tighter around his waist now and was rocking slightly "I missed you so much, but it was worth it to know you were safe," his voice begged John to hear. To understand.

And he did understand. He wasn't happy with it, but he understood. This had hurt Sherlock, maybe just as much as it had hurt John.

Sure, he still felt betrayed but it was softened by his realisations. He stared at Sherlock for a moment but decided he couldn't watch him like this. He looked broken. This prompted John to move forward, wrapping Sherlock in his arms as he let the man sob. He had a feeling the detective never let anybody see this, perhaps not even himself.

"God, Sherlock…" His voice was tired as he breathed the words. The man in his arms was draped over him in his usual dramatic style and for some reason this made John smile. A proper smile. It felt good, like he was finally getting back to normal.

_Maybe he would care if he found out about the gun in your drawer…_

John thought that over for a minute but shook his head. There was no way in hell he was going to take that chance. He just needed to get back to normal with Sherlock; back to their routine. Sherlock didn't need to know about it. It would be unnecessary information to him; he'd simply delete it the second he heard.

He wouldn't care.

Still, there was a feeling in John's gut telling him he forgot about something vital. It wasn't the gun; he could easily move that any time and if Sherlock did find it he could pass it off as security. No, there was something else nagging at the back of his mind, setting him uneasily as he tried to remember. He decided to leave it for now; it obviously wasn't important.

"How about we go back to bed? It's only…" John checked the nearest clock, "It's only 5am. Still plenty of time to get up; I'm still tired," He finished with a small fake yawn. He prayed Sherlock wouldn't notice its forced nature.

If he did, he didn't comment on it. The detective only pulled back to look at him, his eyes roaming over his face with a look of fear. Sherlock relaxed slightly at John's easy smile and returned it but only a little. "I haven't fully forgiven you yet…" John started with a warning expression which soon turned back to his relaxed smile "But I suppose this is a start," He leaned forward to press a kiss to the detectives lips and pulled him back towards their bedroom. All thoughts on sleep as they made their way up.

John seemed to have forgotten the note that was placed gently on the coffee table saying 'goodbye' the night before still sat there on the small coffee table, tucked just out of sight.

Then again, they probably wouldn't notice.


End file.
